Spaceship Theory of Life
On graduating and realizing the structure was always a ship someone else built.
I graduated a few weeks ago and felt completely lost. Then I understood why:
I’ve been traveling in a spaceship. A cozy, warm, structured spaceship. Different levels, each with its own goals. All I had to do was follow through until I reached the next level.
I don’t remember anyone telling me the purpose behind it or who made all of it. I’ve been here for as long as I could remember. Performing well on one level simply meant performing better on the next.
It seems infinite - stretching from the very beginning to the end of all unknown tomorrows.
The ship carries familiar people, some I like and some I don’t. Recurring characters that shuffle and rearrange at each level. You never know if it’s the last time you’ll see someone before the spaceship rearranges itself again.
I may remember what life was like before boarding it, but my memory doesn’t serve well.
All of it leads to the hatch where you are destined to go after you complete all the levels. Nobody knows what the outside is like until they actually make it there. That is when you graduate. But now, looking at it from the outside, having graduated somehow, I’m curious about the design of that spacecraft.
The ship is built out of the collective intentions of everyone onboard. And from what I know about human beings, most of us ease into the path of least resistance and whatever brings us more comfort.
If the spaceship were built by monkeys, there would have been banana trees and grapes everywhere. The system would be self-contained, providing everything the monkeys ever need. A system that scales endlessly with their population. Being human is about knowing there’s always an escape hatch. Because we always make one. An exit that reminds us that all systems are eventually meant to be outgrown and nothing is definite and exhaustive.
I wonder about the shape of my spaceship and what has driven it over years of civilization.
As I float outside, I try the movements I’ve always known. The ones that got me from level to level. But without that gravity, they mean nothing. My arms reach for rungs that aren’t there. I’m suspended, directionless. I’ll have to learn to move again, and this time, I’ll have to choose the direction myself.
The possibilities that lurked in the blackness of space now shimmer before me. I’m learning to move in this weightlessness, though it feels much heavier than gravity ever did. Yesterday I tried a pirouette. I could barely turn an inch, but it was my inch. My direction. For the first time, I chose where to go without a level to guide me.